


Not Quite; Try Again

by CopperCaravan



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Dancing, F/M, Fenera Mahariel, Gen, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 11:35:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4875328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperCaravan/pseuds/CopperCaravan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leliana has convinced Mahariel that she should learn to dance. Mahariel has convinced Sten that he should assist. Zevran hasn't quite convinced Mahariel of anything yet. Just a little snapshot that was originally part of something else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Quite; Try Again

**Author's Note:**

> Also, here's a link to a video of the Allemande, if you just want a better mental image of Sten dancing. :)  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cZWDrjLO7r4

“No, don’t stop now,” Leliana pleads. “You’re doing so well! Now you just need to sort of flutter your hands a bit.”

“Flutter my hands,” Sten repeats, the expression on his face typical of these moods. Mahariel thinks he must be having more fun than he lets on. Probably. Maybe. Then again...

“Like this,” Leliana says, quite literally fluttering her hands by her sides. _Looks a bit like a bird,_ Mahariel thinks, trying not to laugh. Leliana has worked very hard to teach them and she doesn’t want her friend to think she isn’t taking it... seriously. But she can only imagine how they must look—a Qunari over seven feet tall and a Dalish just barely hitting five dancing, of all things, a dance of the Orlesian Court in the middle of the Ferelden countryside. The thought lightens her heart considerably, if only for a little while.

“Sten,” Mahariel says, pulling him back to their starting position. “The Qunari must dance. You must have some sort of celebrations. Parties. Something.”

“My people have a very rich culture,” he says, mock offense thick in his voice. “Many Qunari dance. I do not.”

“Well, you’re dancing with me,” Mahariel says, taking his hand as he extends it.

“Yes, kadan,” he says dryly. “Someone must help you learn, else you will embarrass yourself should you ever be forced to perform.”

She laughs, sticking her foot out in front of her and hopping forward. “I can dance you know. The Dalish dance. It’s much more fun than these silly Orlesian court dances.”

They spin away from each other and Leliana claps. “But just imagine—the twirl of beautiful gowns and coattails, hand crafted masks and the allure of mysterious dance partners. Court is full of intrigue and beauty.”

“And many, many assassins,” Zevran adds from his seat near their tents, eyes following their movements carefully.

Sten and Mahariel link their arms and begin slowly turning. This is the only part Mahariel really likes—she could do without all the hopping.

“How did you get Sten to dance?” Alistair asks.

“The exchange of cultural practices will provide me with useful information to bring back to my people,” he says matter-of-factly, as he links his other arm with Mahariel’s.

But Mahariel laughs as they begin to turn in the opposite direction. “I asked him to,” she says.

In truth, it had been much easier than she’d expected. Leliana had often expressed that she wanted to teach Mahariel a few court dances—“It will take your mind off things,” Leliana had said. And that had been a very attractive proposition, even if everything else Orlesian wasn’t. And so Mahariel had asked Sten to learn with her. She likes Sten. She trusts him. It isn’t that she doesn’t enjoy the humans she’s travelling with, but, like her, he is an outsider—he isn’t human, isn’t part of the Chantry, has often expressed interest in her customs and traditions and thoughts. She takes a bit of strength in his resilience, in the strange looks Alistair gives him when he talks about the Qun, or the misunderstandings between the Qunari Soldier and the Chantry Lay Sister. She takes strength in not being wholly alone, an anomaly among the shemlen. Perhaps he does too.

They dance around each other— _like mating peacocks,_ she thinks, laughing all the more—and, much to Leliana’s delight, they flutter their hands as they’ve been taught.

“Excellent!” she says, applauding them. “Now I can teach you the next set of steps.”

But Zevran stands up and walks over to them. He bows to her, holding out his hand. “May I cut in?”

Sten seems all too happy to have a break. Mahariel however... she’s been a bit uncertain of the Crow. She’d spared him, after all, less out of mercy and more out of simple homesickness. He wasn’t Dalish. He wasn’t one of her people. The tattoos on his face almost offended her—were they intended as some sort of mockery? But she’d been unable to kill him—her hand stilled only by thoughts of home. She would kill him later, if it became necessary. _But until then,_ she’d decided, _I will give him a chance._ Dancing, however, hadn’t been a consideration.

But surely there are better times to strike than now: dancing in front of their well armed companions. So she takes his hand and he begins to lead her in a slow dance that, much to her surprise, feels quite natural in the fluidity of its movements.

She stumbles, of course. Unlike Leliana’s lessons, Zevran doesn’t demonstrate the steps beforehand—he simply leads her along and she does her best to follow.

“We have beautiful dances in Antiva as well,” he tells her, spinning her away from him and then back into his arms.

“And many, many assassins, I hear,” she says, turning away just slightly to hide the smirk. But he laughs, as Mahariel is finding he does often. At this point, perhaps it should not be so unexpected but, to be fair, he did try to kill her less than a month ago.

Their three spectators silently watch as they sway and spin and step, Leliana’s smile widening considerably at the display.

“I would enjoy learning these Dalish dances,” Zevran says. “If you would not mind teaching. We might make an even trade of it, yes?”

She considers him a moment as he swings her around, his hand resting carefully at the base of her spine. She simply can’t figure him out—this chatty, optimistic assassin is beyond her reckoning.

“Perhaps,” she says finally, and he ends their dance with a low dip, holding her securely a few feet from the ground, the ends of his blonde hair falling over his shoulders and his eyes heavy on hers. She doesn't know what he's looking so intently for and she's not sure what he finds.

“I look forward to it, Warden.” Too smooth, this one. She just can’t be sure. Assassination attempts make for troublesome first impressions.

So when she’s back upright, and Zevran has bowed the conclusion of their dance, she turns back to Sten, doing well to hide her uncertainty. “Alright, kadan,” she says, holding her hand out to him. “Time to learn the rest.”


End file.
